Cloudy day slumbering.

Jen is all smiles for the girls' first ever trip to the barber's (or stylists?) chair.

Lily? Not so much with the smiles.

9:15am. That's how late the girls slept in today. Jen rocketed out of bed around 8:30 - "Dave! It's 8:30!!! The girls are STILL SLEEPING!@!!!" - and damn near gave me a heart attack with this proclamation. It was exciting, though. When they sleep in like that, it takes on the perception of a conscious gift that they're giving us, like they conferred between crib slats and decided in their 16 months of wisdom that we've earned a break.
"Mom and Dad deserve a rest, don't you think?"
"I fancy they do, sis. Let's have ourselves a little more sleep, then, eh?"

In my mental recreation of this they have British accents, which they in fact have every time I imagine them speaking covertly. British with a steep Cockney, Michael Caine flavor. Actually, I pretty much just imagine they speak exactly like Michael Caine.

Since their cribbly time went extra innings, we had time to do some french toast for breakfast. Dipping slices of bread in whipped egg is an extravagance that we rarely have the time for, even on a weekend. There's the cracking of eggs, and the measuring of milk, then stirring, not to mention cinammon...dear god, who has time for this crap with twins? We do, but only when they sleep until after 9.

After breakfast, it was off to the girlses' very first trip to the coiffery. I ended up with Abby by virtue of the fact that she was who I was holding when we walked in, and as we were ushered to those tiny little chairs I was bracing myself for having who I felt would be The Cranky One. This turned out to be joyfully (for me!) wrong (for Jen). Abby watched herself in the mirror and didn't make a peep. Across the way, Lily wanted nothing to do with anything going on, including Mommy, the stylist, the cartoons, or even the floating "handler" person whose job it is to stroll around shooting bubbles indescriminately at uncooperative clients.

These professionals (stylists, not the bubble people) (bubble people sounds like a sweet band name, no?) are swift and efficient, so the whole thing was over in a flash. Not too many frills with the kid haircut. No backrub. I look forward to explaining to the girls how Daddy would get his hair cut by sweaty old guys, who may or may not have worked for the mafia, and how they would wrap up every cut with a 30 second back rub that was nice but always left Daddy wondering if he was part of the "family". Daddy learned a great zabaglione recipe, just in case.

The haircuts looked great, I thought. Very bob, very cute, short but not too short, nicely cleaned up. It's very exciting to see them styled a bit.

When we got back, their nap was a bust. Putting a positive spin on it, I went up and hung out in their heavily, sweetly air conditioned room for a good 45 minutes. It was quality time, very lazy play, lots of laughs, very little in the way of sweating. Jen used the time to work on a paper, which is lame but unfortunately necessary.

Later, a fun ride in the burley while I cased the neighborhood for a powderhorn365 photo. I found that one of my neighbors has one of those Peanuts character statues in their yard, so that was it. Nice ride, a little humid, and A and L both fell asleep.

For the evening, we headed over to the Gelsianos for Maya's birthday festivities. It was a nice night, lovely weather, fun people, and we found that the girls are Grade A fans of fried plantains. This is bad news, because Jen and I manage to f-up plantains every time we try to make them. And I can guarantee you, the kids are going to be front and center tomorrow morning with "Feed us plantains now, dammit!" bibs on. They never forget.

Day one hundred and thirty two.

Abs during the cut. She held that scrap of paper until we got home.

Lily at home, post haircut.

Abby, also post-snippity-snip.

Sandal Wars: Chaco vs. Teva

Abby displaying the winner of the Great Sandal Debate of 2009--the winner? Chacos! (If you've never worn them, I highly recommend trying some on, they are great. Dave needed a new pair of sandals, so we went on a family trip to REI tonight. I just hope Dave likes them or I'll feel guilty that he heeded my advice and got the Chacos instead of purchasing his oh-so-reliable Tevas).

Dave just went out for the evening, so I thought I'd do him a favor and finish the blog tonight. I'm not sure I'm up to the challenge though--it's been a long week.

Today marks the end of my second week as a summertime stay-at-home mom. So far I am enjoying it more than I anticipated. Not that I wasn't looking forward to the opportunity, I have been, but I've also been a bit nervous about it. The last time I was a full-time stay-at-home mom was when these two were just a couple of months old and I was deathly afraid of being alone with both of them at the same time.

Why was I afraid of being with my own children? It more or less came down to my being unsure of how to handle it if both of them got upset at the same time (a pretty frequent occurrence for two two-month olds). Even though that fear is long gone, the memory of the fear has always lingered in the back of my mind and it had started to seep into my excitement for this summer with the girls. Fortunately, the past two weeks have eradicated that fear altogether.

So why am I over it? It might sound harsh, but now I know that sometimes one of them just has to cry. The big question is no longer how to comfort them simultaneously when they are both upset at the same time, the question now is who is more upset and/or more legitimately upset, and that is the one that I comfort first. For the past week, this has mainly been Abby. Her horrible diaper rash is worse than Lily's and therefore bothering her more, she's teething like crazy, and she's had a fever for the past day and a half. So she has needed more comforting than Lily. Not to be outdone though, Lily has been doing her best to warrant some parental comfort as well. She even resorted to falling off the couch yesterday and cutting her mouth--I'm not sure what she did exactly, I only know that there was a lot of blood. I was at a loss of how to make her feel better and started to panic that she's never stop crying (and if you've ever heard her before, you know that girl has quite the set of pipes) when luckily, I remembered the healing power of Popsicles. Worked like a charm. Unfortunately, they don't work for Abby--she prefers good old-fashioned cuddling.

So although I have fully enjoyed my time staying at home so far, I am exhausted from all the comfort-juggling. I was hoping it will get easier when they are both feeling fine, but I'm smarter than that now. With the two of them, my odds of them both being perfectly healthy at the same time for any real length of time are pretty bad. Oh well, I'll take what I can get. Even with the I'm cranky and not feeling well; I'm bleeding and need to be held NOW; I'm itchy and cranky--it is totally worth it to get to spend this time with them. And when I just can't take it anymore and I think my head is going to explode, it's time for Dave to come home from work and it is no longer two against one, at least for a few hours.

Day one hundred and something something (how does Dave keep track of that?)

Abby and Dave post-REI tonight. It was finally cool enough to hang outside comfortably, so we hung out in the front yard (you might remember an early spring-time post by Dave when he was extolling the virtues of hanging out in your front yard versus the back--he was right).

Lily and Olly checking out something in the grass together (plus my feet--in my Chacos).

Me: Hello there. I think you're someone special.

Abby: Hello there. I'm using you to help me stand up.

The wee babbling soother girl

Lily in a bonnet, also known as her pants.

Abby was ready for bed early tonight. We hadn't been out of the bath for more than a few minutes when she started whimpering a bit and getting snuggly. Sensing a compacted timeline, I hustled to get them changed and jammied up, after which Abby crawled a few feet away and collapsed face down on the floor.

This was cute. Her tiny little body was obviously just about ready to retire, her legs curled up under her, hands up with her head resting on them, little eyelids struggling so hard to stay open.

Lily walked over and stood over her for a moment. We were ready for something well-meaning but bad, like her hitting Abby over the head with a book. That's her take on sharing; she hits people upside the noodle with things.

Instead, Lily crouched down and proceeded to pat Abby gently on the back, then stroke her back a bit. Some of it was clumsily hard, and I'm not sure that Abby was totally in love with it, but she tolerated it. Then Lily got right down to ground level and babbled oh-so-quietly to Abby, just a gentle little stream of babbly consciousness. This lasted about a minute, until she was distracted by the sound of my heart exploding.

There was more to the day - some good, some bad, as always - but why don't we just focus on this one tiny slice of awesomeness and call it good?

Day one hundred and thirty.

ps. bah, I can't find the time for new pictures lately. I may very well have already posted this; if so, terribly sorry.

Abby checks the bin for more legos.

Monkey.

Monkey feet. Now that I think of it, I think I have already done this. Oh well.

Who needs bathtubs?

This is not how you want your bathroom to look at 6:45am. See the phone, just ready to dial the plumber? It's ready! Didn't get used, though. Whew.

I'll dedicate this to Bryan. Bryan would, way back in high school, occasionally have to "Shake the Angry Fist" at other drivers on the road if they wronged him. It involved a cranky old man face and much motion, and it always made me laugh, so I've had to borrow it a few times. I've shaken the angry fist at broken airplanes, cabinets I've hit my head on, the dog, Jen (while she's sleeping), and many others who have offended me.

Here, our shower bears the terrible brunt of my latest Shaking of the Angry Fist.

Here we have an overhead shot. You can see that the hot water handle is clearly out to lunch. Also: see a striking image of my crotch reflected in the faucet.

Let me start off by saying that I got up early so I could go to work early so I could get my navigation script done, which is grossly overdue. My plans went afoul shortly after my shower had ended when I found that I couldn't end my shower. A part of the hot water faucet (the "valve stem", for those of you inclined to plumb in your leisure) had had enough of life and spontaneously disintegrated.

Thanks to the manner of disintegration and thanks to the calicified marriage of many parts of the faucet, this fix was much more of a headache than a standard replacement of the seat washer.

In the course of things, I spent a bit of time on the internet trying to fumble my way through this fix, and I found some glaring omissions in your average "fix-it" type page. Let me illustrate by the amazing method of example. Here is an excerpt from some crap I found online:

4. Using a smooth-jawed wrench or a pair of adjustable pliers, take out the retaining nut. Don't damage this nut.

5. Put the handles back into position, and use them to twist off the remaining stem assembly. If you see any worn threads, get new ones.

6. Take a look at the valve seat, which is the hole where the stem assembly sits. A rusted valve seat should be replaced.

Wow! Any moron could accomplish this task! Still, I felt like I could improve a bit. Here it is again with my changes:

4. Using a smooth-jawed wrench or a pair of adjustable pliers, take out the retaining nut. Don't damage this nut further than it already is, because, since your house was built in 1912, this nut is just one more stripped wrench away from crumbling into a pile of copper shavings.

5. Put the handles back into position, and use them to twist off the remaining stem assembly. If the stem assembly does not come willingly, put both feet on the wall to brace yourself and pull, dammit, pull! There's every reason to believe that this probably won't work. Spend 25 minutes jamming a screwdriver into the valve housing to try and break up calcium deposits. Refresh yourself by dunking your head in the toilet since that's your only source of fresh water at this point. Repeat.

6. Take a look at the valve seat, which is the hole where the stem assembly sits. The valve seat should look like a little cup, but in your case it probably looks like a copper factory after a pipe-bomb went off. Pull all the little bits out of the faucet casing, then spend another 25 minutes wondering how to get away with not buying a new valve stem ($30) while the kids cry bloody murder.

Hit me back, Bob Vila. I know you're watching and desperately want my advice. Seriously, somebody needs to do a do-it-yourself site that has all possible contingencies written right there in the step-by-step.

Thanks to this uninvited project, I barely saw the kids. You want updates about the kids? Sorry, just plumbing anecdotes from me. I'd ask Jen, but she's checked out for the night. Which is where I'm headed.

Day one hundred and twenty nine.

Gratiuitous kid picture. So happy. So not working on plumbing.

The List.

Ever since the girls were born, I've spent a fair bit of time considering what I'll be forbidding them from doing. It's a natural thought exercise: what activities or groups will I explicitly disallow the girls from partaking in? Because, while I am a progressive sort who finds personal expression and non-questioning tolerance to be solid tenets of a moral person, I also think there's just some crap that would send me through the roof. So, then, here is my list thus far. In a nutshell, if either Abby or Lily find themselves involved with or interested in any of these things, I will be sending them swiftly to the nunnery.

- Scientology (and to be honest, this one started the whole thread for me, because for some strange reason I found myself wondering what it would be like to be Katie Holmes' dad)
- Vegemite (in honor of Chris)
- Elvis Costello (I just don't understand his appeal; it's like nails on a chalkboard for me
- Saturday cartoons other than the ones I watched as a kid (because the 80's nailed it, so why bother? The entire medium of cartoons jumped the shark when The Smurfs faded back into the obscure Belgian wood from whence they came)
- Fundamentalist Mormonism
- "That '70s Show"
- Texting
- Texting about Mormonism
- Participating in an American Idol vote
- Apple
- Portishead
- Not knowing the difference between "your" and "you're"
- Professional arm wrestling
- Amateur arm wrestling
- Irony
- Ponzi schemes
- Country music to include western but excluding alt-country

and, finally:

- Ponies

These things are verbotten.

Certainly you've got your own list. Maybe it's secret, maybe not. If you've ever forbidden your kids from something, please feel free to write a comment and share with the class.

Day one hundred and twenty eight.

Lily waits out a rainy day Saturday.

Still raining.

Abby went down to the crossroads.

Spunky McNugget.

Long night.

"Yup. I'm driving right now. Yes, there is a load of poop in my pants. Great. Talk to you later."

On the way to Papa's house. The effect was much cooler in person, because the windows were down and her hair was blowing all over while she chatted away.

Is it just me, or does the car behind us look like a Wallace and Grommit character laughing at us?

One-Eyed Abby also enjoys the phone.

Olly likes being part of the action.

At Justin and Maia's baby shower on Saturday, they had us sign a little guestbook where we could enlighten them with some parental advice, maybe an axiom or two. I wrote something stupid and glib in a weak attempt at humor, and now I realize that I missed an opportunity for trumpeting some real advice. I send this advice out to them and all future parents in the spirit of mental preparation. Here it is: Some of the worst moments of your life are on the way.

Last night, the ink wasn't even dry on yesterday's blog post and we were barely asleep when Abby woke up. Jen went to feed her while I made my half-assed offer to do it. ("Uh...snort..uhhhoh, hey, I'll get her, Jen, Jen Jen I'll get her, oh you're already up, okay......snore.") After a few minutes, Abby's crying increased sharply in urgency and unhappitude. In a rare moment of lucidity, I got up to help without Jen having to call in. Sometimes you just know when a spouse probably needs your help.

She must have soaked through the diaper, I thought. Or threw up, like last week. Or something solvable. Imagine my surprise when I went in the room and saw Jen holding her, bottle lying worthlessly on the carpet, Abby thrashing around, and Jen mouthing to me, "I have no idea what's wrong."

By this time, Abby was screeching. We went to the guest bedroom, laid her down, and proceeded to lie with her and try to calm her for the better part of an hour. She would double over in pain, then arch her back in pain, then she would somehow manage to do both at once, and the entire time her little tongue was all curled up with agony. We were at a loss. I checked to make sure she wasn't trying to pass a bocce ball out her anus, but that neighborhood seemed rather peaceful when I peeped down there.

We tried a few other things, but nothing worked. There was some talk about the possibility of an emergency room visit, and I was mentally working the logistics of it in my head while we laid there listening to her screaming. And this is where my advice becomes relevant: when you're lying next to your 16 month old kid who is obviously in some tortuous pain and when you have absolutely no recourse but to sit and watch, it brings about a feeling that I am powerless to capture in words. It is rather like somebody has captured your torso in a C-clamp and is twisting it slowly.

But these moments are finite, they always end, and when they do they end gloriously. I had considered almost right away the possibility that Abby might have been teething, but disregarded it because she was crying so ridiculously hard, so I assumed it had to be something worse than teething. Figuring it couldn't hurt, we jammed some Orajel in her mouth (after an enormous effort getting past those steel-trap lips of hers), and within about 30 seconds I could see the edge come off her.

It took a long time for her to wind back down, and this is where the second "glorious" part comes in. We spent about 45 minutes lying with her on the bed, just kinda staring at her while she quietly got used to her lack of pain. She moaned, but happily. We smiled. There was some serious quality time. This is the way it usually goes: terrible moments of soul-crushing empathy followed quickly by a soul-crushingly tender moment with the kid. So I don't mean my advice to be daunting or intimidating, but it's the truth: there are terrible times ahead. But there's almost always a happy ending just a fingerful of Orajel away.

Lily slept through it all. I love those kids.

Day one hundred and twenty seven.

Abby "Love is a Battlefield" Benetar

Little poser.

Happy Father's Day!

"This is ground control to Major Nerd..."

Father's day today. Hmm... I don't feel any different.

Jen watched the girls for most of the day while I golfed one of the worst rounds I've ever played with my Dad, father-in-law, and brother-in-law. Still, nice day, and we didn't get rained on (much), which was quite lucky for us.

The humidity is no doubt shorting my brain, because I'm at a serious loss for things to write. Girls are fine. Crazy monkeys. Good moods for the most part. Rash in the crotchety area is not going away, so they'll be headed to the doctor soon.

That's what happens when I can't think of any sage wisdom to write: you get rash updates. Be very grateful this is not a webcam sort of venue.

Day one hundred and twenty six.

This is Abby. She will eat your nose if you're not careful.

I shot this on the fly from the hip, got lucky with a pretty nice photo with the sun and a very moist looking daughter.

I kept hearing something wood rolling around on the floor today. Rooooooll...stop. Roooooooooooooollstop. The reason finally showed himself.